


Leaves Tremblin' On the Tree

by Vulgarweed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boot Worship, Canon Divergence AU, Canon-Typical Drug Use, Chaotic Neutral Women Loving Women, Cunnilingus, F/F, Frottage, Leather Kink, Nipple Play, Scissoring, Tribadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24028687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: Set during Mary’s run in The Six Thatchers. In one of her “safe houses” on the route, she is intercepted by an old flame who mighttrulyhave her best interests at heart. Whether Mary likes it or not.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Mary Morstan
Comments: 15
Kudos: 27





	Leaves Tremblin' On the Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my betas [iwantthatcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat) and [Anarfea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea)!

The heart of Gabrielle Ashdown (a raven-haired American woman according to her passport) was running as hot as her engine when she pulled the sleek motorcycle onto the remote, shaded lane where the safe house had been. It was still there, deceptively picturesque on the outskirts of the little Polish village, overgrown with wild roses.

She parked the bike behind a wall of heavy vines and contemplated the house in the setting sun. She fingered nervously at her holster beneath her black leather vest, and then she sniffed the air and felt her hackles rise. The house was meant to look abandoned, but this evening it did not. She was not alone. Smoke rose from the old stone chimney. The front door was ajar, and warm lamplight spilled out into the grey-blue of the deepening dusk. As she crept closer, she cursed the way the old wooden porch creaked beneath her heavy biker boots. She drew the .9-mm and held it brandished by her head, ready to strike.

The intruder - hopefully only one - was making no attempt to hide their presence. A bottle of French wine with two glasses sat on the coffee table. Delta blues music was playing softly. Mary crept in, her heart pounding.

“Hellhound on your trail?” asked a soft, insinuating voice, and then she came face to face with a ghost wearing scarlet lipstick and a lacy black robe.

“You!” Mary gasped, her knees trembling. “I thought you were dead. I was told you were dead.”

“And who told you that, mm?” asked Irene Adler. “I guess I’m glad my secrets are still kept. I was worried that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to fool Mycroft for long, but it looks as though he managed. It’s good to see you, Rosamund. Mary. Honestly, Mary, you’ve always been so unlucky. You want to retire from the life - you want the house and the children and the garden and all that - and purely by accident you essentially marry into the Holmes family.”

“But . . . I thought you were _dead,”_ Mary said, tears prickling in the corners of her eyes. “If I was as unlucky as you say, I would be too. I wanted to be.”

“Oh my dear,” Irene said, softening. She surged forward, and then they were in each others’ arms, kissing desperately.

Mary needed this so much - to feel that Irene was here, present in the flesh. That she smelled right, tasted right - bird-boned and lithe, expensive scent of wispy florals and white musk. Lips gently pulling, tongue suavely darting. 

“How?” Mary managed to gasp. “I was told . . . I mean, _honestly_ . . . beheaded in Pakistan is such a what-the-fuck way for you to die . . . I was sure it must be true. No one would make that up.”

“It very nearly was,” Irene murmured. “But I had a useful dupe in the right place at the right time. I _am_ good at that, you know.”

“Should I ask?”

“Do you really have to?”

Mary sighed and pressed closer because she didn’t want to talk about that. Her reality was rearranging itself with disorienting speed, and she wasn’t about to do that out loud. How could Irene be here? How did she know? Joy, rage, and paranoia were an intoxicating cocktail. She’d been so tense, so alert for so long: how could she have missed something this big? She half expected a knife in her back, but she settled into the embrace anyway.

If Irene was going to seduce her into letting her guard down for a few hours of escape from the madness, Mary wasn’t about to ruin the moment. Irene slid her hands down Mary’s back til she reached her arse - now larger than Mary liked - but Irene purred in delight and squeezed two handfuls of soft black leather and flesh. Irene backed Mary against the low table and slid one leg over hers, rocking slowly against Mary’s thigh.

“Leather suits you,” Irene said, low in her ear. “Do you like being a biker? Do you like the power? The speed? The vibrations? I had to travel light but I can improvise some toys for you. The usual? On your knees?” she sang along with the music for a moment. “Me and the devil, walking side by side . . . gonna beat my woman until I am satisfied.”

“Oh,” Mary sighed as Irene’s mouth whispered its way down her neck. “You . . . know what I like, you always do. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I think,” Irene said, sliding a hand into Mary’s jacket to circle a nipple with her immaculate nails. “I think . . . you are eyeing that fur rug by the fire. It’s horribly trite and you know it, and you don’t want to say it.” Irene nipped her earlobe and Mary jerked upwards, trying to nuzzle back. Irene was so slim it was easy to forget how strong she was. “I think you’ve got enough thrill from the cloak-and-dagger business going on in your life right now. I think you’ve got your guards up high and you don’t want to ask for what you really want.”

“Oh, you’re good. I’ve never wondered why you’re so expensive, not for one second - oh -” Mary gasped as Irene bit down.

“Now I’m going to tell you what you want,” Irene purred as if she hadn’t heard a word of it. “I think you want me to kiss you again. You want to be kissed like a sweetheart. You’re going to let me do whatever I want because you always do, and because you don’t feel like making any choices. You’re all burned out on that, aren’t you? Maybe you’ve made some bad ones. So what I’m deducing is that you want me to take your hand, and lie down with you on that rug by the fire, and make you feel like we’re girlfriends. Like we’re almost innocent. As close to vanilla as we’re ever going to get, love.”

Mary sighed in agreement and raked a hand down Irene’s back, catching herself and caressing softly, moving her hand in slow circles. “It’s role-play still, though, isn’t it?”

“The innocent part? Definitely. And very difficult to pull off. I would charge a client far far more if they want me to play innocent. It’s very much not my forte. But for you - “

Their lips met again, sealing and softly consuming, and Mary tightened her hand in Irene’s dressing gown, threatening to tear the expensive lace, falling just short of it. As if they were not role-playing being sweethearts. As if there could be a future for them somewhere - a cottage, a dog perhaps, a bed molded to their shared shapes over decades. “Let’s not play innocent, not even as a game,” Mary said. “Let’s be who we really are. _But_. . . ”

“Then if you’ll indulge me by keeping those leathers on a little while longer….”

“It’s always what you want. Always,” Mary whispered.

“But what if it’s my job to know what _you_ want?” Irene took Mary’s hand and led her to a soft chair by the fire, on the rug, and guided her down into it. Irene bent forward and kissed her again and again, resting her hands on the chair’s arms - her tongue dancing slowly to the pulse of blues-beat, her teeth nipping lightly. Mary sighed as Irene’s hands cupped her neck and squeezed so slightly, and then she gasped as Irene sank to her knees between Mary’s legs, fingernails trailing down her collarbones as long as her shirt would allow. Irene unbuttoned it deftly, biting at the swells of her breasts through the stretchy lace of her bra.

Mary reached out to grasp Irene, who stilled her with a stern look, even as she reached around behind Mary’s back to unhook her bra and slide her hands under the loosened band, teasing her nipples in just the way that always made Mary shiver - with a hint of pain and cruelty, pinching and tugging just a little too hard on every third attack - or fourth - or not at all - and then again. Unpredictable. Yet rhythmic. Mary’s blood pulsed to the swollen reddened places in a heavy, sultry beat.

“Here, now, you should wear this all the time,” Irene said, nuzzling Mary’s breasts but sliding her hands down to leather-encased hips, running her hands up and down the sides of Mary’s thighs, nails through her trousers to the backs of her knees. “Of course I never do this professionally - you make me think I need much more vacation time.”

Mary’s misty brain registered at last what Irene was doing - caressing Mary’s motorcycle boots compulsively, sliding one slim thigh across Mary’s right shin and rubbing herself shamefully against the hard scuffed leather like a cat beginning to feel the first pulses of heat. Though little sensation bled through to her skin, Mary still felt herself growing wetter as Irene shimmied further downward and began to lick at the boots, working wet stripes down Mary’s calf to the top of her foot.

The sight of the top of Irene’s head with its elaborate braids of dark hair, the bend of her delicate neck as she worked, kneeling at Mary’s feet and licking her boots - _Irene!_ \- sent Mary’s mind into frenzies, impossible thoughts, dreams, terrors unleashed, and a sense that anything was possible, even surviving this ridiculous adventure. 

For if Irene was alive, if Irene could bend and kneel and serve, then indeed the threads of reality themselves felt flexible, and perhaps anyone could become a spider, a weaver of destiny, rather than a fly trapped in silken strands, helpless. Mary reached down and stroked Irene’s hair, and was rewarded with a satisfied little purr. Irene raked her nails up and down the leather trousers, making her way back up Mary’s thighs, sliding from outer to inner, breathing heavily and lipstick smeared.

“Open your trousers for me, please,” Irene whispered, licking her lips. “Will you?”

“You’re - _asking?”_

“I’m _begging,”_ Irene said, batting her eyelashes. _“Look_ what you can make me do.” Irene was irresistible when she was completely disingenuous.

Mary swallowed once and did as she was told - slowly, to give Irene a little bit of a show. Zipper down, dark pink knickers showing, dark blonde curls not so neatly trimmed anymore. Irene was still caressing the leather on Mary’s legs but pressed forward with her nose, inhaling, sharp chin pushing fabric down as Mary shimmered her trousers loose. Had they been that tight this morning?

“Oh, I do like this part,” Irene said softly, first touching her tongue to the very tip of Mary’s cleft. “Why don’t you grab my hair and pull?”

“Is that a command?”

“It’s a strong suggestion.”

Mary ran her hands over Irene’s loose coif, pulled pins loose and then grabbed. Irene gave a happy little trill and dived in as Mary pushed her hips forward. Irene’s tongue skittered lightly over the groove of her lips for a while, teasing, until Mary pulled harder and Irene’s tongue plunged in, lapping and lingering.

Mary gave a sigh and leaned back against the wall. Legs still trapped in the trousers dropped to mid-thigh, she couldn’t spread as far as her instinct wanted, she had to let Irene work. Irene’s hands travelled upwards, grasped her rolling hips and gradually, too slowly, brought her hands down to the juncture of Mary’s legs. With a little, muffled, wet sound, Irene gazed upward, meeting Mary’s half-closed eyes.

Her fingers traced the meeting of thighs and hips, and suddenly, roughly yanked the trousers further down as Irene went to work with delicate, clever fingers, pushing into Mary just barely not enough as her tongue fluttered against Mary’s clit.

“God,” Mary gasped, her knees going weak. Irene knew what she liked - well, that was her job. Mary’s spine started to get that melting feeling as she started to sink. Irene grasped her by the right calf, guided her to place her knee on Irene’s shoulder. Manicured nails raked her inner thigh, and she quaked violently as the first climax took her, Irene driving in two fingers hard with each pulse. She cried out, hearing that sound echo daringly in the room. She’d been so quiet for so long. Took its toll, hiding.

Irene made a long hmmmmmm sound, face still buried in Mary’s crotch. Her hand tugged at the back of Mary’s knee, urging her down to the rug. 

By the fire, Mary sank to her knees, still flooded with bliss, still sharply aroused, ready for more. Down on the carpet, she spread her legs as far as she could, and smiled when Irene knelt over her, pushing a slim thigh in between hers. Irene gave a sharp push of her hips, and the pressure nearly set Mary off again.

“Can we . . . ?” Mary whispered.

“Mmmm yes, like this.”

Crackling fire, warm on one side. Legs entangled, hips moving. Irene, strong and wiry and skillful, gasping deep in her throat as Mary palmed her small breasts and dropped her mouth to a peaked nipple. They had time, but they moved as though it was rushed and urgent at first, until Mary deliberately slowed the pace, rolling her hips to a beat more like the slow dirty blues playing.

Mary thrilled to watch Irene come slowly undone - prickles of sweat, rasped breath, building slowly to little yelping cries as her movements grew urgent again. Mary lifted one slim leg higher around her waist and pushed her fingertip in-between her thigh and Irene’s clit, fluttering as much as she could with no room to move, no space in between them - bodies woven together and melding.

Irene was so wet, leaving trails down Mary’s thigh. Irene’s nails sank into Mary’s back as she stiffened and tensed, bucking violently as she came and Mary followed, brief smugness completely wiped out.

Mary buried her face in the crook of Irene’s neck, inhaling deep before untangling their bodies in a slow, leisurely fashion, in a companionable silence.

“You didn’t expect that when you came here, did you?” Irene asked, a hint of velvet in her voice. Sated, then.

“I try to have as few expectations as possible,” said Mary. “Reduces disappointment.”

“So now you’re on the run,” Irene said, running her fingers over Mary’s clavicle. “Have you thought this all the way through?”

Mary sighed. “Not as much as I’d like. I was . . . blindsided. Still hard for me to wrap my brain around - all this time, Ajay thought I betrayed him. As soon as I accepted it was true, well - if I’m the one Ajay wants, then I’m the one he’ll follow. If my past is going to come back to get me, I can’t let it anywhere near Rosie. She’s safer without me. John too. Sherlock. The whole lot of them. I’m sure Sherlock is working with Mycroft somehow, and _he’s_ not always useless at least.”

Irene gave a very eloquent _hmming_ sound. “Well, they all have their uses. Just not always in the way they think.” 

Mary laughed ruefully. “I still think my chances are better on my own. Always knew something would come back, one day. It’s just . . . after all the awful things I did, now I’m being hunted for something I _didn’t_ do.” 

“Life isn’t fair, love. The closest it ever gets is a keen sense of irony.” 

_You always did have a gift for that,_ Mary thought but did not say. “So let’s have a drink then.” 

Irene poured the wine, and excused herself to clean up in the loo, watching out of the corner of her eye to make sure Mary switched the glasses when she thought Irene was out of sight. 

_Oh my love. You are suitably paranoid but not quite enough and not in the right ways._

When Irene came back she took up her glass, and they toasted, cuddling and kissing. And Irene bade Mary hush, with a finger to her full kiss-swollen lips, as realisation dawned of the betrayal. 

“I - oh you BITCH!” Mary started to lunge toward her and Irene slinked back, but her head and limbs grew heavy. When Mary swayed, she slowly lowered herself down to the old sofa. She pressed her face into her palms and pulled at her hair. She was already starting to sink down. Her tongue was loosened further. 

“I…need to say this. I need to say this before I pass out and you kill me or sell me out or whatever you’re going to do. I love him. John. In a way. He’s a good man. In a way. I’m doing all this for our daughter. If I die, you need to protect her or I’ll haunt you. But . . . if I’d known . . . if I’d known you were alive . . . I wouldn’t have married him. I wouldn’t have married anyone. _Worst_ thing you can do, faking your death. _Worst_ thing for the ones who love you.” 

Irene sat back and appeared to absorb. “Worse than . . . other things you’ve done? That I’ve done?” 

Mary’s expression was dazed now. But although the flow slowed, it was not yet ready to stop. “Look, I know. He wouldn’t have got . . . like that . . . with me if he’d known Sherlock was alive. I don’t blame him y’know. What do you do when . . . your love, the big one, life . . . ‘s dead? You’ve got to move on, right? You’ve got to settle for something else. Whatever you can get. When John found out . . . he was in too deep. And way too angry. We know that. We have that understanding now.” 

“Do you think Sherlock was wrong to come back? Did you hate him for that?” 

“For a while I did, sure. Yeah. And . . . and I saw what he did to John and I love John. I’m over it now. Got to know him, Sherlock . . . But. You know what? I hate you _more._ For NOT coming back. When it could have changed things.” 

“You don’t hate me,” Irene said. In her world-weary tone was a small measure of doubt. 

No, course not,” Mary slurred. _“Wish_ I fuckin’ could, though.” 

“When I see you again, I’ll let you whip me for a change. I’ll kneel at your feet again. You can take it out of my hide. You can hurt me. Not now, though. You’re becoming very uncoordinated.” 

“You drugged me, you cunt. Every time I trust you I regret it. Still love you anyway.” 

“There there. You’d never say that if you weren’t high off your tits, would you? Ssshhh, it’s okay. Nobody but me is here to hear you being honest.” 

*** 

Irene kissed Mary’s forehead as Mary swatted at her woozily, and then listened carefully as Mary’s breathing slowed to a deep sleeping pace. Slowly, Irene began to count to herself, monitoring the minutes. She checked the pulse in Mary’s wrist. At rest, normal. Mary’s hand was limp. Very well, then. Every person responded to drugs a little bit differently, but Mary was proving to be perfectly average, well within the comfort zone of Irene’s testing. 

Ever so lightly she turned up the music, just enough to place another layer between Mary and what Irene planned to do. Acoustic blues was soothing in its way, with its organic rhythms tuned to the body, even though its lyrics might not be. Irene hummed along half-consciously. She stood up and stretched, drawing the dressing gown around her shoulders again. She’d have to be ready to leave in a few hours. Important to get this delicate job done as soon as possible, as much as she was wanting to succumb to the sweet peace of watching Mary sleep. Mary’s face lost years of lines, and her hair fell across her eyes like a rambunctious girl’s. 

_Sentiment. A chemical defect found in the losing side._

_Not this time,_ Irene thought with a bitter little smile. _Not my side at least._

Carefully, moving like a cat, Irene took a pair of fine black kid gloves from her pack, putting them on, and then she brought out her lock-picking jewel heist kit. She made her way to Mary’s knapsack, and fingered through it, disturbing as little as possible. In the lining of a rain jacket, she found it. Sewn in. Patiently she worked the little item out, and scrutinized it carefully. With her magnifier, she inspected it for signs of tampering, and sure enough, found them. Her little cry of triumph was sneaky and contained. 

It took her longer than she expected to extract the tracker, but she couldn’t allow herself even the slightest hint of damage. When she’d finished, she replaced the AGRA jump drive back exactly where she had found it, and made a few careful stitches to hold it in. 

The tracker she took with her, sliding it into the pocket of her own knapsack. _Whoever’s hounding you is going to get a big surprise at the end of the trail, Mary. Now you’ve got a better chance at handling this on your own._

*** 

“It’s in your hands now,” Irene whispered to sleeping Mary. “Convince Ajay if you can, kill him if you can’t. Or . . . there is a third possibility. You could let him ‘kill’ you. And then come find me.” 

In a moment of daring, Irene pressed into Mary’s hand - on paper, unhackable - the coded address of a safe house, and a matchbook from a mob-owned club and casino in New Jersey where one of her alter-egos had an upcoming singing gig. She sang Mary a lullaby before she turned to go. 

_Everything dies, baby, that’s a fact_  
_But maybe everything that dies someday comes back_  
_Put your makeup on, put your hair up pretty_  
_And meet me tonight in Atlantic City_

**Author's Note:**

> The songs quoted:  
> “Hellhound On My Trail” and “Me and the Devil Blues” by Robert Johnson  
> “Atlantic City” by Bruce Springsteen (The original Irene Adler was a New Jersey girl, and also a professional singer. I hate it when adaptations take her musical voice away, so any time I write Irene in any story, you need to assume that she can sing even if I don’t explicitly say so)


End file.
